


Just Another Day

by coffeebuddha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John rolls onto his back, wonders about the odds of Sherlock's brooding taking a temporary hiatus in deference to the holiday, and groans at that impossibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luredin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luredin/gifts).



The early morning light filtering through the crack in the curtains is pale and weak, nearly drowned out entirely by the thin, gray drizzle that plinks against the windowpanes. John turns his head into his pillow, trying to block out even that little amount of light, and flings his arm out wide. It hits nothing but cool, rumpled sheets, though there's still a slight indention from the weight of Sherlock's long body when he splays his fingers on the mattress. When he listens, he can just make out the sound of violin strings being plucked; it's too quiet to actually make out the melody, if there even is one. John rolls onto his back, wonders about the odds of Sherlock's brooding taking a temporary hiatus--not long, just twenty-four hours, which shouldn't be too much to ask--in deference to the holiday, and groans at that impossibility.

He thinks about curling back up in the pocket of warmth under his blanket, then sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Better get up now and to go to Sherlock than try to go back to sleep and have him barge into the bedroom, incomprehensible connections tripping off his tongue. The floor is cold under his feet--he _knows_ there was a rug there the night before, and there's going to be hell to pay if Sherlock's used it for anything too disgusting--and his toes curl at the chill. John links his hands over his head and stretches, his back popping with a loud crack, before scratching his fingers through his hair and dragging a palm roughly over his face.

John reaches blindly for the watch on the night table, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he yawns, and the side of his hand brushes against hot ceramic. He pauses, eyes still closed, and frowns as his fingers close around what is very definitely the handle of a cup. Past experiences would indicate that he probably doesn't want to know what's in the cup, but when he warily opens his eyes, it looks like tea. Smells like tea too, and when he delicately sips, there's an undeniably tea-ish flavor to it. In fact, it's not just tea. It's tea exactly as he takes it, and John gives the seemingly innocent liquid a dubious look before tasting it again. Yep, still tea.

He sets it down gingerly--he's still not entirely willing to rule out the possibility of it suddenly combusting--so that he can quickly wriggle into his clothes, then curls his chilly fingers around the steaming hot cup and wanders out into the flat. There's a corner in the den where John would have put up a Christmas tree if he'd remembered, but since he didn't there's a growing pile of crumpled papers. There are no stockings or lights or little decorations in sight, and if it wasn't for the thick black line crossing the box marked '24th' on the calendar, there would be absolutely no indication that today is anything other than a wet, gray winter day.

Sherlock's easy enough to find, sprawled on the couch with his violin clutched to his chest. A cup of tea is balanced on the arm rest behind him, and John feels a little safer about the cup in his own hands. John stalls for a moment by his chair, then moves to the couch instead, pushing Sherlock's legs out of the way so that he can sit. Sherlock lets out a token grunt of protest, but there's no real feeling about it, and he stretches himself back over John's lap almost before he has time to settle. John rolls his eyes and carefully braces his elbows on Sherlock's legs as he blows on his tea. Sherlock glances at him, barely more than a flicker of light eyes under dark lashes, and his long fingers dance lazily over the strings. The quirk of his lips is almost invisible, impossible to notice unless someone was watching him as closely as John is, but it's the only warning he gives before his tuneless plucking seamlessly segues into "The Little Drummer Boy".

 


End file.
